The battlefield stank of smoke and ruin. Corpses twisted in the dark, their limbs reaching like broken branches. Lindarion stood in the center, hunched, his blade planted into the soil to keep his body upright. Every breath rattled his chest. His blood marked the ground in shallow pools.
No trace of silver eyes remained. No trace of laughter. Dythrael was gone, as if he had never existed.
But the memory of him lingered, untouchable, infinite.
Selene's warmth pulsed once more through his veins, sealing cracks that would have left him in the dirt. She whispered gently, "Enough for now, Master. Let them not see your wounds."
He exhaled shakily. "…Sleep, Selene."
Her presence dimmed, folding back into silence.
The world's weight crashed into him. His knees nearly gave. He forced himself upright, pressing his will into his muscles until obedience became survival. His grip on the sword tightened, shadows curling faintly along its length, masking his tremor.
